Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery

by Layce Gardner

  “Where’s the rest?” Goombah #1 demands. “This doesn’t even cover the vig.”

  “I can get it, I swear, it’s just going take some time, that’s all,” Milton stutters.

  Now I know what Milton’s game is. He’s a gambler, lost a bunch of money, borrowed from the wrong guys and now can’t make the vig (that’s Italian for interest) let alone the payment. I would bet my eye teeth that Dom’s Do-Nuts has a gambling racket set up in their back room and that’s where Milton’s money troubles began.

  That’s Milton’s cue to start begging. It’s not a pretty picture. I can’t stand to see a grown man cry. But that’s what he does. He cries all over the damn place, snot runs down his face, he gulps and gasps—it’s revolting. By now I want to punch him in the face and tell him to grow a pair.

  “You got one week,” Goombah #1 says. “Double the juice and payment in full. Capish?”

  Milton nods like a Bobblehead.

  Goombahs #2 and #3 pick him up, one under each arm, and toss him out the door and onto the sidewalk where he lands butt first. I don’t see the rest because I’m too busy beating a path out the back door which is conveniently located by the bathroom. I run around the corner. I get back to my car just in time to see Milton and his Mercedes speed off.

  My case is solved at this point. I found out the scoop. Now all I need to do is report back to Veronica that the scuzzball owes the Mafia big time and the only way he can get the money is by divorcing his rich wife. But my curiosity gets the better of me. I want to know where Milton is going next, so I follow him.

  From the general direction he’s headed, I figure Milton is going to his office. He works for Peter’s Pickles, probably in some name-only kind of position. His real job is bedding the owner’s daughter, but lately he hasn’t been doing any of that due to his supposed injured pride about the hymen thing. I’m surprised they even let him in the building.

  I’m maybe a half block behind Milton’s Mercedes when I see a black crotch rocket buzz around me and zig-zag by three other cars. The driver is outfitted head to toe in black leather and his helmet is matte black with a dark windshield. He looks ominous, like Darth Vader on a Kawasaki.

  Darth Vader sticks to Milton’s butt like a bad case of diaper rash. They both make a quick left into a ten-story parking garage. I don’t make the turn quick enough so I have to circle the block before I can get inside the garage. I slowly troll the levels until I spot them up on the roof level. Something tells me they’re not up here for the view.

  I slam on my brakes when I see Milton get out of his car and Darth Vader jump off his bike. Milton runs for the exit. He slips, falls, gets up and runs more. Milton is obviously not athletic. He reminds of the skinny, pimply kids who get blasted in Dodgeball.

  Darth Vader is much quicker. He chases Milton and when he gets within striking range he whips off his black helmet, throws it and it connects with Milton’s pumpkin. Milton goes down with a thud. Milton apparently did not learn the three Ds of Dodgeball: Duck, dodge and dive.

  I get out of my car. I’m not wanting to start a bullet war up on the roof with this Darth Vader dude, but I also can’t stand by and watch him kill Milton. I duck behind the trunks of cars and sneak my way to within twenty feet of where Darth Vader is standing with one of his big black boots in the middle of Milton’s back.

  Darth Vader says, “Where’s my money, asshole?”

  “It’s coming, it’s coming. I’m good for it,” Milton wheezes.

  “That’s what you said last week.”

  “I’ll get it, no worries,” Milton gasps.

  “I’m not worried. You should be the one who’s worried,” Darth Vader says. “Because I’m going to blow your frickin’ head off.”

  Darth Vader reaches into his pocket and that’s when I step forward. I pull my gun out of my coat pocket and aim it at Darth Vader, saying, “You’re not blowing anyone’s head off. Not on my watch. Drop the gun.”

  Darth Vader turns his head and looks at me. I must cut a pretty imposing figure because his eyes widen.

  Then he laughs.

  It doesn’t make sense to me. Are my pants unzipped or something?

  Then Darth Vader says, “Is that a banana in your pocket or you just glad to see me?”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about until I look down. I’m holding a banana. Dang it! I forgot to put my real gun in my pocket.

  It must be a random act of kindness that Darth Vader doesn’t kill us both. Instead, he kicks Milton in the ribs, scoops up his helmet and saunters away, saying, “One week, Miltie. Or else.”

  I watch him get back on his crotch rocket and peel out. Milton looks over at me. His mouth and chin are covered in blood. “Whoth the hellth are you?” he lisps around a missing tooth.

  "I'm your new best friend," I say. "And I'm taking you to a doctor."

  Eleven

  Milton sits on the table in Dr. Who’s exam room. Dr. Who used to be a legit doctor (or so I’ve been told) at Lakeland Hospital. Now his office is in a brownstone building. He converted part of his house into a doctor’s office. He treats the kind of injuries that the police would like to be notified about. He doesn’t do notifications. He lost his license due to a malpractice suit of unknown origins that he doesn’t talk about and his patients don’t ask.

  Obviously, Dr. Who isn’t his real name. It’s what everybody calls him. I think it’s some kind of a joke nobody gets. Dr. Who is dressed in a white button-down shirt, red bowtie and an oatmeal-colored sweater. His sweater is tucked into his brown corduroy pants. I’ve never trusted men who tucked their sweaters into their pants.

  I found out about Dr. Who through Travis who found out through one of the burlesque girls who dated a couple guys of ill-repute. At the same time. Dr. Who removed the slug one of them put in the other. Dr. Who forgot it ever happened. He’s that kind of doctor.

  “Your nose is broken and you’re lucky you have a hard head,” Dr. Who says after he’s finished prodding Milton’s skull. “And you lost a tooth, but I’m sure you already know that. It’s a good thing you weren’t talking or you’d have lost the tip of your tongue as well.”

  “That’s really good news,” I say. I can’t imagine not having a working tongue. But now didn’t seem the proper time to go into all that.

  Milton looks like the picture of miserable. “I can’t let anyone see me like this. There’ll be too many questions that I don’t have answers for.”

  “What about your wife? What are you going tell her?” Dr. Who says, packing Milton’s nose with cotton wadding.

  “How’d you know I was married?”

  “I’m telepathic,” Dr. Who answers.

  “Really?” Milton asks, widening his eyes.

  Dr. Who laughs. “No. You’re wearing a wedding band.”

  “Oh,” Milton says. He hangs his head. “My wife and I are currently on the outs. She kicked me out of the house.”

  “What’d you get hit with?” Dr. Who asks.

  Milton doesn’t immediately reply. He seems to be considering his response, so I cut in with the answer. “A motorcycle helmet.”

  “Sound like the work of Tony Bugatelle,” Dr. Who says.

  “It could have been,” Milton hedges.

  “That’s his modus operandi,” Dr. Who says. “So, how much you in for?”

  Milton confesses, “Fifty large.” He conveniently leaves out the part about owing money to the goombahs at Giovanni’s. This guy is in up to his neck.

  “Fifty thou is big enough to get you the helmet treatment. He’ll bust your legs up next. This was just a warning.”

  “I’m thinking you’re really bad at gambling?” I say.

  “I don’t get it. I was doing so well for a while,” Milton says.

  Dr. Who laughs. “The games are rigged. They let you win for a couple of months—get your confidence up and then they reel you in. You’re not the first sucker and you won’t be the last. I suggest you liquidate all your assets and pay up fast or
the doctor you see will be doing your autopsy.” Dr. Who pulls out his pad and writes out a prescription. “Here’s a script for painkillers. You’ll need to pick this up at Trennel’s pharmacy over on 53rd . Ask for Trennel himself, he knows me.” He hands over the script.

  “I’ll drive you in your car,” I offer. I left my car back on the rooftop of the parking garage. Milton was bleeding so much, he couldn’t drive so I just shoved him in the passenger seat of his car and brought him straight to Dr. Who. It’s not as chivalrous as it sounds, I didn’t want blood all over my car.

  “Get some more cotton wadding. You’ll need to change out the dressing every day and I suggest you see a dentist. Here’s Dr. Allen’s card. He does implants and doesn’t ask any questions.”

  “Thank you,” Milton says with a tone of humility. “How much do I owe you?”

  “I’ll send a bill,” Dr. Who says. “Just jot down your address.” He hands Milton a small memo pad. “And I don’t expect you to pay me until you get Bugatelle off your back.”

  I drive a silent Milton to the pharmacy. We don’t talk until I park the car, then I hand him the keys. I don’t want to be seen with him any longer than I have to in case the bad guys are still on the lookout for him. I’ll make my own way back to my car. “What are you going to do about the debt?” I ask.

  “I don’t know but I have to figure it out fast.”

  “So you’re divorcing your wife to get the money?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because if you get her to break the prenup you’d have enough money to pay the debt and then some.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “That’s why I’ve been following you. She hired me to find out your game.”

  To his credit, Milton looks ashamed. “I didn’t see any other way out of it.”

  “How about telling her the truth?”

  “I can’t do that. I’m supposed to be this pillar of morality in the church and I have this horrible sin of gambling problem. It would hurt my reputation.”

  “You won’t need a reputation if you’re dead,” I say. “How about I help you out. I’ll talk to your wife and give her the whole scoop and you enroll yourself in a Gambler’s Anonymous and stay away from cards forever.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “No. But I’ll do it for your wife. No woman deserves to be treated this badly.”

  “You’re right. She deserves better than me.”

  “Then be the man she fell in love with.” I get out of the car and shut the door. On second thought, I lean back down and say through the open window, “Oh, about her missing hymen… I suggest you drop the whole thing. Your wife is beautiful, rich and she loves you. She didn’t marry you for your looks or your brains. For some odd reason, she really loves you.”

  He nods. “Thanks again. I know you didn’t have to help me.”

  “Yeah, I’m a real sweetheart that way.”

  He goes in to the pharmacy. I walk down the street to a Dunkin Donuts shop and settle into a booth with a coffee and a jelly donut. My car is on the other side of town. I’m not in the mood to waste that much shoe leather, so I call the only person I can think of who will come rescue me at a moment’s notice with no questions asked.

  She picks up on the third ring and I say, “Hey, Veronica, it’s me. You got time to come get me? I need a ride.”

  Veronica isn’t wearing any underwear when she picks me up. I know this because she drives me back to my car and climbs on my lap. She undoes my trousers, pushes them down to my knees, straddles me with her skirt up around her waist and kisses me.

  My brain shuts down completely, but my body goes on without its help. I know I should tell Veronica no, but it seems that my mouth went on vacation with my brain and then I’m at the point of no return and…

  Hey, I’m only human.

  Twelve

  Because of my tete a tete with Veronica, I am late for my parrot duties. As I drive over to the Friedman’s apartment I think about what just happened. How does Veronica always get me to do this? Oh wait, I know how.

  I get into the elevator and press seven. I hope Lebowitz isn’t mad at me for being late. Do parrots get mad? I know cats do. I can’t begin to count how many cat turds I’ve found in my bed and hairballs that have been coughed up in my shoes. I wonder what parrots do when they get mad?

  The elevator door is closing just as a harried older woman runs across the lobby shouting, “Hold the door, please! Hold the door!” I quickly press the open button and the lady gets in beside me, breathing heavily. She has gray pincurls, bright red lipstick and is maybe four feet tall. She reminds me of the lead character in the movie Harold and Maude. Maude, not Harold. Her teeth are chattering and she’s vigorously rubbing her hands together. It doesn’t take a detective to reason that she is half frozen.

  “Thank you,” she says between teeth chatters.

  “I hope you weren’t out walking in this cold,” I say.

  She turns out to be the type that talks non-stop once she gets started. “I had to. I’ve lost my dog. I can’t find Lady Sybil anywhere. I don’t know how she got out. I know I locked the door to my apartment but when I got back the door was cracked open and Lady Sybil was gone. She knows how to open doors. She’s a German Shepherd and you know how smart they are. Too smart for their own good, that’s what I always say, and that’s why I always lock the door, but I must have forgotten. Still I don’t see how she would have got past the doorman in the lobby. He’s very proud of his observational skills. I just went down to talk to Jonathan, he’s the daytime doorman, to tell him I was expecting a large parcel. It’s a wonderful new bed for Lady Sybil, her old one had gotten so tattered and she’s been ripping the stuffing out. Will you press 5 for me, dear? But Jonathan hasn’t seen hide nor hair of her.”

  I press five.

  “You haven’t seen my Lady Sybil, have you?” she continues.

  I shake my head. “I’m taking care of Mrs. Friedman’s parrot for a few days. So, I’ll keep a look out.”

  “Oh, will you? I’m hoping some well meaning soul took Lady Sybil in. She’s a tough dog but it’s going to get so cold tonight.” She wrung her hands. “My name’s Dolores Heinz. I’m in number 57.You can remember that by thinking of Heinz 57,” she says.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out one of my new cards. “Jamie Bravo. And here’s my card. You can always contact me at that number.”

  The elevator stops on the fifth floor. Dolores stares at my card. “You’re a private investigator. Well, how about that. I might need your services. Do you find missing pets?”

  I almost say no before I realize that I’m low on funds and the office rent is coming up. “No job is too big or too small,” I say instead.

  Dolores steps out of the elevator and the door closes behind her, but not before I hear her say, “I’ll be calling!”

  A dog that can open doors. I haven’t heard of that trick. I have seen some Youtube videos of dogs peeing in toilets and cats making toast—harmless stuff like that. A dog that can open doors could be hazardous, though. What if the dog pulled a Robert Downey, Jr. and opened the door to the wrong house? And the owner came home to find a German Shepherd lounging on their bed. That could be a little scary.

  “You’re late! You’re late!” Lebowitz hollers as soon as I open the door to the Friedman’s apartment. "For a very important date!"

  “Not that late,” I mumble.

  “Jews and Gays! Jews and Gays!” Lebowitz squawks.

  “Calm down,” I say. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “I’m here! I’m here!” he repeats.

  This bird is annoying and I’ve only been here ten seconds. I wonder if Mrs. Friedman would be completely heartbroken if I accidentally left his cage door and the window open.

  “Turn down the TV! Don't be an asshole!” he says.

  I laugh. I would bet dollars to donuts that the bird is mimicking what Mrs. Friedman says to Mr. Friedman.

&nb
sp; I go to the kitchen and find a box of bird food sitting out on the counter. I forgot to bring the list of instructions with me, but how hard could it be? I just open the tiny cage door, take out the bowls, fill one with bird seed and the other with fresh water. Easy peasy.

  Turns out easy peasy isn’t so easy. I should’ve known Lebowitz was up to no good when he looked at my fingers like they were fat juicy worms and licked his beak. Ignoring my better instincts, I open the cage door and as soon as I reach inside, Lebowitz uses his deadly sharp beak to bite my finger.

  “Ow!” I jerk my hand out of the cage and stick it in my mouth. I suck on the finger he bit. Then I realize I might get some kind of transmitted bird germs, so I stick the injured finger in my armpit, which doesn’t make any sense but I feel like I’ve got to do something to comfort my damaged digit. I’m cussing the whole time because my finger-in-the-armpit is throbbing.

  Oh crap. Lebowitz is out of the cage. He flies around the room, bumping into things. It’s like he’s drunk flying or his GPS is mucked up. He flies into the lamp shade, the bookshelf, and gets tangled in the curtains before he finally alights on the TV.

  I stare at the bird. I point at him and then at his cage. “You get your feather-butt in that cage right this minute and I mean it,” I say with as much authority as I can muster.

  He doesn’t move. And if I’m not mistaken he even laughs.

  I charge at him, but he flies away and I end up snatching nothing but one green feather.

  “Fire in the hole!” he shouts from the kitchen.

  “I’ll put fire in your hole,” I mumble. I can’t believe I’m doing this job for free.

  I tippy-toe into the kitchen. Lebowitz is preening himself on top of the microwave. I make a mad dash at him again.

  “Fire in the hole!” he squawks.

  This time I only get air. Not even a feather. I almost knock the microwave off the counter.

  Lebowitz disappears into the living room. Obviously, I can’t catch him like this, so I’m going to have to outsmart him.